


The Stories Are Off

by Anonymous



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Angst, Boot Worship, Daddy Kink, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:59:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6323194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeb and Marco, after Marco suspends his campaign.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stories Are Off

**Author's Note:**

> rpf disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction. The characters in this fic are based on real people, but are not intended to resemble anything that happened or would happen in real life. Nothing is meant to be true, and I also acknowledge the complete awfulness of Jeb! and Rubio's politics.

The last time he saw Jeb Bush was in Florida. It was completely business, nothing personal. Marco knew that he was just one meeting out of three, Jeb talking with the other not-Trump candidates in the field and weighing the prospects of an endorsement.

There weren’t any apologies on either end, from him or from Jeb.

Instead they’d nodded to each other and launched into a discussion of the Tuesday primaries ahead, Marco’s team talking alongside them.

In the end, Jeb didn’t endorse him or anyone else. Like Jeb eventually said to Marco’s aides, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference.

27% to 45%. _27% to 45%._

The numbers still come back to him--his own home state--and Marco remembered the hot flash of rage he’d felt when his spokesperson showed him a mocking tweet of Trump’s, soon after the primary results were announced.

The tweet had a video clip of Marco saying, a week earlier: _I believe with all my heart that the winner of the Florida primary next Tuesday will be the nominee of the Republican Party_ and Trump had accompanied it with the words: _Thank you Marco, I agree!_

It isn’t as if Marco wasn’t aware of the polls, as if he didn’t see the writing on the wall. Yet he’d campaigned and he’d prayed for a miracle.

It was over. He was back in D.C., the campaign like a long-ago memory, even though sometimes he thought he was on the road again.

His memorized speeches and talking points still ran through his head. His mistakes still bore into his conscience--that fiasco with Chris Christie; or, later on, what Marco had become, slinging insults at Trump, making everyone shake their heads at him like he was a _child_.

But he kept his head high and went back to the Senate, relieved when they greeted him with applause when he returned.

Of course, just while his life was beginning to die down from its previous excitement, easing back to something resembling normal, he received an email from Jeb Bush.

Jeb was in town for some reason, and he wanted to meet with Marco tonight. Nothing big or serious, just an offer asking Marco to drop by at a hotel where Jeb was staying.

It was--strange. Marco didn’t know how they were supposed to feel about each other now, but despite himself, he was curious what Jeb had to say. So he shot back a response: _Sure. I’ll see you tonight._

 

* * *

 

They started the evening with awkward hellos and a stiff handshake. Marco took a seat beside Jeb on a couch in the hotel room, and Jeb asked the customary polite: “how are the kids?” question. Then the conversation turned to football, and Marco found himself relax as he talked about the Dolphins signing on a new guy for their coaching staff.

Jeb, Marco noticed, was watching him with a small smile on his face. It was nice; it was like there hadn’t been the ugliness of the primaries, and they were simply two acquaintances catching up.

Looking at Jeb’s smile, at his face, Marco said suddenly, “You’re wearing your glasses.”

He looked better. Jeb looked like himself. Forgoing his glasses for contacts near the end of his campaign was a bad move, and Marco felt his hand drifting forward to acknowledge their presence with a brief touch.

Two fingers lightly grazing the side of the glasses’ frame. Then backing away, Marco dropped his hand down.

Marco knew that was a weirdly intimate gesture, but Jeb didn’t flinch.

Marco said, “Why are you here?”

“I can’t tell you exactly why myself,” Jeb said, shaking his head. “But this whole thing, these primaries--it’s been a mess, hasn’t it? It’s like the world’s gone crazy. And you’re out of the race like me.”

Marco got what Jeb was trying to say.

“In another world,” Marco said, “it would have been you and me as the front-runners. We would have been the highlight of every debate. And the press yelling about mentor against protege, generation against generation, and we would be neck-and-neck in delegate counts.”

Jeb said, “And nobody would’ve heard the words low-energy or Little Marco.”

 _Little Marco._ It was stuck to him now, wasn’t it? He’d been called _Marquito_ in the past, mostly fond, but Trump had permanently branded him as Little Marco and he knew he could never shake it off.

Marco let out a sharp laugh of agreement. “Yes. That, too.”

“Wish we could have that world,” Jeb said quietly.

Marco attempted to picture it: a world where people weren’t as angry or scared. Their party could easily have the White House, and everything would make sense. But the future of the Republican Party was uncertain, the base splitting and fracturing, and Marco felt worthless.

He had tried. He had wanted to further his political career and bring the country into his promised new American century. He made his last stand in his home state.

Nothing had worked and it felt like everything he did never mattered. Marco wondered when he had gone wrong, when he had become so unimportant and useless.

 _Little Marco_ , he remembered again, and he gritted his teeth and realized he was trembling.

“It’s okay,” Jeb said, a low murmur. He reached out to put a hand on Marco’s shoulder. “There was so much I thought I could do. Making a legacy of my own. I know, _hijito._ ”

With a jolt, Marco remembered, with clarity, Jeb calling him that before he’d given him the gold and silver sword. It didn’t hurt the same way Little Marco did; it was something else.

_Little son._

The shame, the humiliation--it was there, but only slightly, the name digging into him and curling into something warm and wanting.

“Again,” Marco said, his eyes closed. “Call me that again.”

Jeb leaned closer and breathed _hijito_ into his ear. Marco didn’t move.

“I wish,” Jeb said, his grip on Marco’s shoulder tightening, “that we could’ve ended the race on better terms, seeing as that fighting was all for nothing. You could say sorry.”

“You could,” Marco retorted, but it was a half-hearted scoff.

Jeb stood up, the couch shifting with his weight, his palm on Marco’s shoulder turning a fraction. Then Jeb moved his hand to Marco’s chin, tucking his thumb underneath.

Marco’s eyes were still closed. Every sensation was acute and urgent.

This was wrong, he knew. They shouldn’t be doing this, but Marco _needed_ this, needed to give whatever Jeb wanted from him.

“Please,” he said.

_Please._

“You stupid, beautiful kid,” Jeb said, something in his voice breathy and reverent and almost disbelieving. He leaned downward, the frame of his glasses nudging against Marco’s face as he kissed him.

They held the kiss together, Jeb standing there above him.

When Jeb pulled away, Marco opened his eyes.

Marco said, “Say it.”

“Not right now,” Jeb said. “Just wait.”

Jeb dropped to his knees before Marco, and Marco found himself staring, stunned. Jeb gave him a smile, half-hesitant, half-uncertain, and then he lurched forward so that the side of one of Marco’s black boots was grazing against his cheek.

Marco’s breathing stuttered. He said, lightly, “Didn’t you put out an ad making fun of them?”

“It was a super PAC, not me,” Jeb said. “Marco. Shut up, _mijo._ ”

Marco did, feeling dazed. Jeb was _nuzzling_ against Marco’s boots, face brushing against the shiny leather with the same careful reverence he’d had when he kissed him. Then Jeb brought his mouth to the tip of a boot, and kissed it.

“There,” Jeb whispered. “It’s good. You’re good, little one.”

Marco realized that his cheeks were flushed. He didn’t like it-- _little_ right there in English--and he wanted to shrink back in embarrassment, and hurt, and somehow, inexplicably, pleasure.

 _My god,_ he thought, shaking, and he raised a hand to cup around his mouth to cut off the needy, pathetic sounds that were on the tip of his tongue.

“No,” Jeb said. “I want to hear you.”

Marco obeyed, letting his hand fall away. Jeb got himself back on his feet, trailing his hands across Marco’s thighs, then settling one hand in Marco’s lap.

When Jeb touched Marco, Marco made a strangled noise, and let out a stream of choked incoherent words in Spanish. Broken, desperate sounds, while Jeb called him _mijo, hijito_ bringing him to orgasm.

Gasping and shuddering, Marco was left trying not to _cry_ even though he didn’t know exactly why.

“Hey,” Jeb said, gently. “Marco. The world’s not over. Might not be the world we want, but we’re here now. You did okay. You did okay.”

Jeb sat back down on the couch beside Marco. Marco mustered a weak quirk of a smile. He let himself sink to the side, head falling into Jeb’s lap, and he felt Jeb’s fingers pulling through his hair.

Marco felt small, like he had always been feeling ever since his campaign was nearing its inevitable end.

He buried his face deeper into Jeb’s lap, as if he was trying to disappear.

He still felt small. But at least here, he was warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Rubio’s boots are real: [one](https://twitter.com/mikiebarb/status/684122644250255364/photo/1) and [two](http://static2.politico.com/dims4/default/38fa546/2147483647/resize/1160x%3E/quality/90/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fstatic.politico.com%2Fdc%2F48%2F2693011c428e9cac6a24725400c6%2F20160105-marco-rubio-4-ap-1160.jpg).


End file.
